


Flavor and Finish

by Meridians_of_Madness



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aprons, Baking, Exhibitionism, Inappropriate Use of Olive Oil, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24016885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridians_of_Madness/pseuds/Meridians_of_Madness
Summary: Aziraphale makes a point about how he doessouse his apron, and Crowley reaps the benefits.-Written for the kink meme prompt foundhere.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 223





	Flavor and Finish

“Hey, angel, you never guess wahaaaaaaaghk-”

“Never guess what, darling?” asked Aziraphale innocently, adding a cutting board full of ramps to his mixing bowl.

His back was to Crowley, the afternoon sunlight silvering his hair and turning his skin to pearl. Crowley's brain fumbled the restart as he took in how much of Aziraphale's skin was on display, that was to say, all of it. His bastard little angel was completely bare except for the blue and white gingham apron that usually hung off the hook in the bookstore flat's kitchen, the skirt pleated to fall in neat folds down to his knees, the tapes knotted in a perfect bow perched right above his arse.

Crowley's poor overwhelmed brain turned up a memory from last week when he had tweaked one of those tapes walking by.

_Dunno why you keep this around, Aziraphale. Hardly think you need to keep tidy when you barely bake at all._

_I do bake sometimes. Why, I just had the most urgent craving for focaccia the other night, and I believe I do have all the ingredients in the pantry..._

_Ah, pull the other one, angel. You'll go straight down to La Belle Tour like you always do, see if you don't._

So yes, this was all his fault, and dear Somebody did he have to come up with a good way to send his past self some flowers.

“What were you saying, dear?” asked Aziraphale politely. “You've gone rather quiet. Cat got your tongue?”

Crowley, still eyeing Aziraphale's arse and thighs, the deep shadows in between and the soft curves, shook his head before remembering that Aziraphale couldn't see him.

“Ah, 'course not, angel. Just a bit lost in my own thoughts.”

“You were saying I would never guess what you did today.”

“Oh. Oh yeah, right, I guess I was. Never mind, silly story anyway. Angry drug dealer. Exotic animals. Spunky children. Penguin given new home at the zoo. Happy ending all around 'cept for the drug dealer. You know.”

With every word, he drifted closer, and then he ran his hand from the nape of Aziraphale's neck down his back to the curve of his rear, resting it there lightly, almost inquisitively.

“Gracious, that sounds like an exciting time,” Aziraphale said, not looking up. “As for me, I am finally getting around to making that focaccia I was craving. This is that recipe that nice young lady gave me at the book fair in Guildford. You remember.”

Crowley did not, too entranced by the soft blush he could see staining Aziraphale's throat, and the slightly soft inflection of the angel's words. So that was how the little brat wanted to play it.

“Can't say as I do, angel.”

“Red hair, pretty blue dress. Rather insistent on her theories about Rob Armin changing the whole clowning game, but she can be forgiven for that.”

“Ah, Bob. Died owing me a tenner, the bastard.”

As he spoke, Crowley raked his nails from Aziraphale's waist down to his thighs, leaving tiny raised welts in his wake as the angel shifted from one foot to the other. The kitchen smelled of olive oil and garlic, the dry scent of flour and the herbs that Aziraphale had sprinkled into the dough. Underneath that was something that Crowley chose to read as a scent, that is, the smell of an interested and gently aroused celestial being

Aziraphale made a sound that couldn't really be called a whimper as he mixed the contents of the bowl together, and encouraged, Crowley stepped in, his hand firm on Aziraphale's rear and squeezing now, fingers digging into the fat and fetching up against the muscle underneath.

“Ah- Crowley!”

“Yes, pet?”

“I.. that is. Would you be a dear and read me the card I have pinned? What comes after stirring?”

Crowley grinned as his hand gentled, and he looked up at the card tucked into the corner of the cupboard.

“Mix until soft dough forms, and then knead on a floured board until dough bounces back. Roughly ten minutes.”

Crowley nuzzled the back of Aziraphale's neck as the angel fussily floured the counter and tipped the dough out on it. Ten minutes, he could work with that. For a moment, he only lightly scratched the small of Aziraphale's back right under the bow as he started to fold the dough in on itself, turning his hands and bare wrists white with flour.

Crowley listened for Aziraphale to relax, and then he reached around for a tall narrow bottle on the counter.

“This the olive oil you're using? This isn't the good stuff.”

“Oh, no. It's not worth using something too nice for baking, you know. Something like that is fine to put a nice crisp on the edges and to ensure that the dough is properly rich.”

“How practical you are, angel. You'll make some nice man a fine frugal wife someday.”

Crowley tipped some of the olive oil onto his fingers, thinking that yes, you really didn't need to use the good stuff for absolutely everything. He inspected the shine on his fingers, and then shrugged before drizzling a small amount right above the angel's crack, greedily watching for the way Aziraphale shivered, his shoulders coming up before he forced them down again.

“You're good at that. The kneading, I mean,” Crowley commented, sliding his fingers from the small of Aziraphale's back through the spilled oil and then down between his cheeks. He didn't bother finding his hole at first, just glided his fingers against warm skin, getting everything properly slick and messy.

“I... I learned in Florence. 1703.”

“Hm. I wasn't around for that.”

“Well, I needed to keep occupied some -how!”

Crowley drank in Aziraphale's gasp as he slid one finger completely inside him. It wasn't too much, but it was shocking when there had been nothing there previously. Crowley knew that his knuckles were pressed against Aziraphale's plump flesh, almost unforgivably hard.

He laughed softly at the fact that Aziraphale was still kneading, folding the dough corner to corner and then pushing it out again with the heels of his hands. He was tidy and meticulous as he could sometimes be, and the way his hands moved had nothing to do with the rest of him, focused entirely on Crowley's touch. He barely shuddered when Crowley slid another finger in, crooking them just slightly, more a tease than anything else.

“Did you buy anything to eat with your focaccia? Should have called me, I could have grabbed some cheese from the market for you.”

“I believe I have some in the- Ah, Crowley!”

“In the what, angel?” asked Crowley sweetly, twisting his fingers again.

“The refrigerator,” Aziraphale said shakily, still kneading. Crowley leaned around to peek at his face, grinning fit to kill while Aziraphale refused to look him in the eye. _Refused to give him the satisfaction,_ the angel would have said if they were acknowledging Crowley's fingers twisting in his arsehole, and that was just fine for the moment.

“Ah, but that's just a mozzarella, isn't it? Thought you might like something a bit stronger with all you've got going in there.”

Aziraphale stifled a tiny sob as Crowley started to work another finger inside. Poor dear. He really was trying very hard, wasn't he?

“Mozzarella's just fine,” Aziraphale said. “It's a very clean taste, salty and rich, but not much else. It will offset the... the...”

He arched his back with a whine as Crowley pushed his third finger in all the way. It was a tight fit in this position, but he knew that Aziraphale could take it. He wasn't quite sure if the angel knew, but he was still kneading the dough so industriously. Surely he didn't mind.

“The ramps, probably? That's some strong stuff. You're right, probably don't want a terribly complex cheese to fight that. It'd be knocked out in the first round.”

“Yes, exactly,” Aziraphale said, his voice thin, and Crowley took pity on him, enough to simply rock his fingers back and forth as he slowly relaxed and opened.

“You really do look cute in that apron,” Crowley commented. “I'm sorry I ever questioned you keeping it around.”

“Well, I don't bake as much as I really would like...”

“I think you should,” Crowley said. “I think you should make a regular thing of it. S'good for you to have creative things in your life, you know, rather than just passive things like reading.”

“I-”

Aziraphale uttered a sharp cry as Crowley started to thrust his fingers in with increasing speed and strength. He was firm on his feet, and Aziraphale was nearly pushed forward into the counter until he braced himself as well, leaned forward and with his legs slightly spread. Crowley rested his free hand on the small of Aziraphale's back, steadying him as he fucked him with his fingers.

“Maybe we could make a Thursday afternoon thing of it,” Crowley continued. “You know. You bake a thing, I come over and watch you bake it. Could be fun.”

Aziraphale was making soft breathy sobbing noises, and Crowley was mutely impressed he was still kneading, his fingers leaving dents in the dough that he quickly pressed flat.

For a while, they were quiet, Aziraphale working at the dough, Crowley working at him, and finally, Aziraphale swallowed.

“I need to put this in the bowl I set up,” he said, nodding at the greased bowl across the kitchen. He sounded almost meek, and there was something hot and raw in Crowley that really, really liked the sound of it.

“Well, hop to, angel. I doubt good baking leaves much time for hesitation.”

Aziraphale scooped up the dough and took a tentative step towards the opposite counter. If he thought Crowley was letting him get away so easily, he was wrong, however, and Crowley, slightly awkward but unwilling to stop what he was doing, followed him. He stayed close, his fingers anchored inside and relishing the feel of Aziraphale's muscles clenching around him as he took small steps towards his goal. Aziraphale placed the ball of dough in the bowl, turned it once, and then covered it with a towel.

“And now you just let it rise?”

“Yes. For one hour-”

Aziraphale groaned as Crowley reached up with his free hand to tangle them in Aziraphale's curls, tightening and pressing his chest down to the counter.

“Crowley!”

“You said an hour, you little tease,” Crowley murmured, kicking his legs apart and pulling his fingers free with an obscene squelch. “I'm going to use it.”

He worked his hard cock out of his jeans, giving himself just a bit more girth and length than he usually had, and he knew Aziraphale could feel the difference when he pushed the head against the angel's slick hole.

“You are just too precious like this, angel,” he purred, leaning his chest against Aziraphale's back. “Imagine prancing around the kitchen like a blessed Playboy bunny and not expecting to get filled up with cock.”

Aziraphale whined at that, and then he groaned as Crowley filled him with one hard tight stroke. He had worked him open, but this was more, and the angel deserved every inch for his lewd baking demonstration.

“That's right, pretty, you take that. You _think_ about how hard I've been watching your adorable rear bounce around the blessed kitchen. People _eat i_ n here, angel.”

He fucked Aziraphale for a while like that, lost in the angel's body and his heartfelt groans. He could feel the tension building up low in his belly, and with a curse, he leaned down and groped at Aziraphale's cock through the front of the apron. There was a growing spot of wetness in the gingham, and Crowley wrapped his hand tight around the covered shaft, stroking as he thrust, matching Aziraphale's whimpers with his own.

It was good, so very good, and Crowley lost the plot utterly when his climax rose up and refused to be put off. He thrust heavily into Aziraphale one more time, forcing the angel to take him all the way, and as he came, he told Aziraphale how he would do this to him every blessed Thursday, have him as the bread rose, make him kneel and lick all this up and who cared if the tile floor was hard on his poor knees, not Crowley, not as long as he got to come deep in his arse or,all over his pretty face, fuck, in his hair if he liked...

Aziraphale shuddered and cried out, his body wringing Crowley's softening cock viciously, and the apron caught most of the mess, which, well done, really, though this was hardly its intended purpose. Still clinging on to his angel, they came apart and slid to the floor. For a moment, they considered each other and the faintly ridiculous and wholly satisfaction of good sex.

“Well,” Aziraphale said presently. His head was pillowed on Crowley's shoulder, and Crowley made a face at the floury handprint he was leaving on his black shirt.

“Yeah?”

“I'm keeping the apron, Crowley. I _do_ use it.”

He said it with such primness that Crowley started to laugh, helpless and exhausted and so in love that he couldn't resist kissing Aziraphale again, and one thing led to another, and the focaccia was a bit over-risen in the end, but no one really minded.


End file.
